


Stars Up Above

by vipertooths



Series: ST: Kirk/Spock [4]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (can fit anywhere after the first movie), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domesticity, Fluff, Foreboding, Gift Exchange, Happy Ending, M/M, Mystery, ST Network GE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9278873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipertooths/pseuds/vipertooths
Summary: You are safe now.It’s like a stone has been dropped into the puddle of his existence.//Spock and Kirk live an idllyic life in California, but it becomes increasingly clearer that not everything is as it seems.





	

Jim leans against the wall outside of Spock’s classroom as students flood the hallway. He pays them no mind and they afford him the same treatment, hustling past to go cram in that extra study session or coffee or nap while they still have the time. He ducks inside just as the last stragglers are making their way out and crosses the room leisurely, taking a seat on Spock’s desk.

After a pause and a slow, aristocratic eyebrow raise, Spock finally speaks. “Are you not affected by any sense of impropriety?”

Jim scoffs, leaning back on his palms. “I'm not even your student, _Professor_. And I don't have an ounce of shame in my body.”

Spock regards him coolly before gathering his belongings with brisk efficiency and walking away without a word. Jim scrabbles off the desk and jog a few paces to catch up, playfully bumping their shoulders as they fall into step. A sudden thought springs to mind, out of his mouth before any filter could have a chance to stop it.

“Do you want kids someday?”

Spock gives him a quizzical look, but doesn't bother asking what brought the question on. “The decline in my species’ population-”

“Putting aside duty or societal pressures, taking into consideration only _your_ feelings on the matter, would you _want_ children?”

“It is unlikely that I would ever conceive a child completely of my own volition.”

“That's not really an answer. That doesn't tell me if you'd want one. It’s okay not to know the answer to something. Personally, I just don't think I'm parent material. I don't want to be like my mom. I know she loves me, but sometimes love isn't enough.”

“By your standards, you also did not answer your question.”

Jim grins. “I guess not. I guess...I’ll burn that cross when I bridge to it.”

“I do not believe that is the correct phrase.”

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but fair words butter no parsnips.”

Spock’s judgey eyebrows are back and Jim’s smile stretches as he tries to hold in his laughter, probably starting to look a little manic.

“Don't bite the hand before you plough the field.”

If Vulcans sighed, he’s sure that’d be the only thing Spock did around him.

“You made your bed, now you must row with the oars you have.”

“You are being nonsensical.”

“You like it.”

“Your judgement is flawed.”

+

“-would not be habitable to much of the flora and fauna found on Earth, as-”

Jim stares at the ceiling as Spock talks, roaming eyes always coming back to rest on its singular blemish, a small hole, almost unnoticeable if you're not looking for it. If he stares directly at it, it almost seems as if it’s breathing. He knows it’s just an optical illusion, but it unsettles and fascinates him all the same.

“-snowfall averages a total of one thousand four hundred thirty-two centimeters each month. While that amount is withstandable for a number of-”

He runs his thumb over the inside of Spock’s wrist, a gesture he’s done enough that the Vulcan doesn't bat an eyelash over it, simply continuing his disquisition. It’s calming, somehow, the easy intimacy. It feels _right_ in a way Jim didn't realize something could; like finding something that fits perfectly into place after a lifetime of thinking there was no space to fit anything.

_Can you hear me?_

The hole in the ceiling morphs, grows, like it’s about to swallow the entire room, before it closes back on itself, returning to the small, breathing thing it once was.

He blinks rapidly and tries to quell the automatic fear that had bubbled up in his chest. The words were so clear this time, as if someone was standing in the room with them. _It wasn't real_ , he reminds himself, forcing his fingers to move again. He draws aimless patterns on Spock’s skin for a moment before realizing that the room has gone quiet. His lapse in attention must have been obvious.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

After a pause, Spock continues, winding on about climate and survival rates and possible airborne diseases. Jim chuckles to himself when he realizes that this is their version of pillow talk.

“Airborne disease amuses you?”

Jim shakes his head and slides his hand down to twine their fingers together.

“It’s nothing. Continue.”

+

Jim sighs as Spock cards a hand through his hair, content to spend eternity listening to the staccato beat of his favorite Vulcan’s heart. From where his head rests on Spock’s lap, his nose is positioned just inches from it. He lifts a hand to the spot, imagining the thrum of it beneath his fingers. _My sea and sand._

“My sun and stars.”

Jim startles, then huffs out a quiet laugh. He hadn't realized he’d said it aloud. Warmth suffuses him as he recalls the first time he’d said the words. He was reminiscing over one of his favorite pieces of poetry; it had been written with such love, such pure, unadulterated devotion, that it had stuck with him since first finding it. Mindlessly, he murmured the line, ‘My sea, my sand, my sun, my stars,’ into Spock’s neck, spurring a discussion about the poem.

Spock had argued that it was redundant to include both sun and stars when the sun _is_ a star. Jim had quipped back that while there may be many stars, not all are suns, and the one that is a person's sun will be the most important star to them. They had eventually conceded that it was slightly repetitious, but an exception could be made with poetry where it couldn’t in an academic paper.

He smiles fondly at the memory and presses closer to Spock. Here, lying against the only Human-Vulcan in existence, time passing in a groggy haze, he feels more at home than he ever did in Riverside.

+

“Do _you_ think Earth’s first contact wasn't really Earth’s first contact?”

The program Jim put on, a documentary on various alien conspiracy theories from before first contact, has Spock’s rapt attention. Jim’s already seen it, but he’s always had a secret penchant for conspiracy theories. It’s not that he believes whatever he hears, it's just that they're fun to think about and pick apart; they were always a great way to prompt his critical thinking as a kid.

“The odds are,” Spock pauses, mentally translating what is sure to be a very specific number into Human lingo, “in favor of that conclusion. If there was truly nothing to hide, it should have been a facile act to present a united front. That several agencies and corporations would release contradictory information is warrant for suspicion.”

“I do admit that mentioning the hit and run of the investigator was needless. If the so-called Men in Black wanted someone dead, I doubt they'd wait four years to do it, unless they get some twisted pleasure out of ruining vacations.”

_You must wake up._

It takes a split second for Jim to realize that those words did not come from Spock. Bursts of static flash on the TV and a familiar sickness wells up in him.

_You are safe now._

He squints harshly at the far wall, the point that he’s focusing on the only part of the room that doesn't seem to be moving, _warping_. It’s like a stone has been dropped into the puddle of his existence. He waits out the ripples until they disperse, then stands up, needing to busy himself.

Spock shuts off the TV and stands as well, placing a hand on the inside of Jim’s arm. “Are you well?”

Jim takes in the worried look directed at him and forces a smile. “I'm fine. Just feeling a little lightheaded. Maybe it’s my blood-sugar level. Or my iron. I had anemia as a kid.”

“Perhaps you should make an appointment with a physician.”

“Sure, Spock.”

+

Jim rubs his jaw thoughtfully as he considers the board in front of him. He decides on moving one of his knights, deducing the change to Spock’s strategy.

When Spock moves his rook, Jim smothers a smile behind his hand. It’s so predictably _logical_ ; he’s got this game in the bag.

“Do Vulcans ever watch sunsets? Or stare out over the sea? Or, you know, just waste time pondering over the beauty of something?”

“It is not a common occurrence. While Vulcans can appreciate beauty, there is often tasks of more importance to complete.”

Jim stretches his legs out, propping his feet on Spock's lap with a cheeky grin as he slides one of his pieces across the board.

“I was not aware that I am a piece of furniture.”

“Well, we can't know everything, huh?” He makes his final move, then leans back in his chair with faux innocence. “Check mate.”

Spock stares down at the game, head tilted slightly in that way that’s reminiscent of a confused puppy and makes Jim want to kiss the tip of his nose.

“So it is.”

+

Zucchini, squash, red pepper, onion, mozzarella, basil. Jim nods to himself after reviewing the fresh ingredients he’d gotten, pushing the pre-packaged ones to the side for more working room. He pushes up his sleeves and washes his hands, then pulls two knives free from their block in the counter while Spock does the same.

“My mom used to make this for me when I was a kid,” he says, handing a knife to Spock on the other side of the kitchen island. “It was the only way she could get me to eat my vegetables. Zucchini and squash need to be diced. About a half inch in size.”

Spock nods and begins cutting, motions as fluid as a stream. “I imagine even that much must have been a difficult task, if your proclivities for eating them now are any indicator.”

“Yeah, she kept trying to sneak them into my food. It never worked.”

The right of Spock’s mouth quirks upward slightly and Jim isn't sure if the affection he feels is his own or Spock’s or some shared thing. It doesn't matter; that it’s there is enough.

“My mother did not often cook Earth meals,” Spock shares, placing his diced ingredients in a bowl and awaiting further instruction.

Jim pushes the basil forward with direction to chop it. He keeps his voice low, not wanting to break the atmosphere that had established itself.

“It was more logical to acquire food produced on Vulcan,” Spock says, continuing his story. “When she did, I did not allow myself the admission that I enjoyed it. She was more comfortable with Earth-based ingredients, more enthusiastic, though she tried not to show it. It made her happy; I believe she felt more connected to her homeland in those moments.”

Jim stays quiet, the all-too-familiar grief of moments lost fraying at the edge of their conversation, threatening to devour it if ruminated on long enough. But there’s also something else, some void, noticeable for its absence. It hulks in the background, an intangible beast, urging him to ask more on the subject. He swallows down the words as a sense of foreboding wraps around him, unable to shake the feeling that filling the empty space might be worse than leaving it as it is.

When they've finished preparing their meals, Jim slides his arms around Spock, feeling comforted in the closeness. They stand there in silence for a long while, both aware that something is wrong, both unwilling to figure out what.

+

Jim stares out at the sun setting, a beautiful arrangement of yellows and oranges and pinks. It's rare that he takes the time to appreciate the sky, falling prey to Human tendency to tire of what they have, constantly seeking out the new. They've touched the sky too often, already ascended into the metaphorical heavens; it holds little sense of awe now.

Most times that he looks up these days is to find the stars, and he wonders idly how the sun would feel about that, if the sun _could_ feel.

“It’s not the sun’s fault that it shines so brightly,” he says into the open air, feeling slightly ridiculous for sounding melancholy over an inanimate object. Spock, for his part, simply tilts his head, a silent agreeance.

Jim runs his fingers over the back of Spock’s hand, tracing each dip and curve. He’d never entertained the idea of such domesticity before, never thought he could be so intimate with someone without anxiety setting in. It’s nice to touch someone this way, simple and honest, no expectations, no intention of it becoming  _more_.

“Spock, my son.”

Jim freezes, Spock’s hand tensing beneath his.

“You must wake up.”

The voice seems to surround them, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. The horizon tilts, as if it is feeling the same vertigo that’s sweeping over Jim. Despite the dizziness, he pushes himself to his feet with Spock, keeping their sides pressed to each other.

“Father?” Spock asks, voice low and confused. The world swims around them; Jim’s certain he’s going to drown.

“Do not panic,” the voice, apparently belonging to Spock’s father, intones. It shakes a laugh from Jim, an incredulous thing that steals the breath from his lungs.

The world dissolves into darkness, a welcome relief from the spinning scenery he was being forced to stare at before. He reaches for Spock beside him, grasping nothing but air. Fear and confusion wind around him, nearly palpable, and he realizes that they are no one’s but his own. At the edge of his consciousness, there's a prickling sense of calm, and he latches onto it, despite its foreign nature.

There’s a distinct feeling of falling, like missing that last step on the stairs, an unexpected rush as you’re not met with the solid ground you’ve come to expect.

He wakes with a gasp, heart beating wildly, everything blurry and bright. He closes his eyes for a moment before trying his sight again, making out only vague shapes as his eyes begin to tear up.

Someone joins him in his mind and he immediately identifies the person as Spock. It feels like safety and warmth and he focuses on their link. He’s vaguely aware that someone is speaking, but he’s more preoccupied with taking deep breaths and trying to pretend that the adrenaline running through his veins isn't making him jittery.

When he finally tunes back into his surroundings, he realizes that Bones is the one talking. Memories clash in Jim’s head of being at the academy with and without Bones. It feels like he’s lived two separate lives and they're being forced together.

“-just calm down. You're safe here.”

“Where is here?” Jim rasps, and the answer comes to him immediately, courtesy of Spock and their link.

“We’re on Vulcan,” Bones says, “You had to be examined by their healers. You've been in a coma for weeks. What's the last thing you remember?”

Jim shakes his head just barely, pain building behind his eyes. “The sunset, outside of mine and Spock’s apartment.” Even as he’s saying the words, he knows something is wrong with them.

“It was not real,” Spock says quietly, dredging up memories of the two of them being attacked by a telepathic species on an unexplored planet. Spock had grabbed and shielded him mentally, shutting out everything else in a desperate attempt to save them. The life they had, living together near the academy, was fake. It was a construct of their minds caused by trauma and instinctual preservation.

Jim’s mind recoils from Spock’s, breaking their connection. He squeezes his eyes shut again, trying to limit sensory input.

“If we may have some privacy,” Spock says, tone brokering no argument.

“If that is your wish,” Sarek answers, “we shall return at another time.”

Bones sputters and grumbles on his way out, but otherwise causes no further fuss. “I'll be right outside,” he grouches, and Jim can't tell if it’s meant as a reassurance or a threat.

When the room is silent, Spock says his name, and he doesn't open his eyes, but he can feel a presence on the outskirts of his mind, asking for permission.

“Please.”

Jim lets him in, feeling a strange twist of emotions filter through the link. He realizes that Spock had been holding back before, probably not wanting to overwhelm him. One in particular catches his attention, and it surrounds him like a blanket.

“What we experienced did not occur in reality, but it _did_ occur.”

“What we felt was real,” Jim says, understanding the train of thought. He wishes he had the strength to reach out to Spock, but he knows he’s too weak, muscles atrophied from being bed ridden. _This is real,_ he thinks, hope blossoming in his chest.

Spock dips his head in acknowledgement and Jim smiles.

Recalling a list of real world problems they'll suddenly have to face, he feels that hope wane slightly. “There’s going to be...complications.”

“It is fortunate that we have one another’s continued support.”

He reaches out in the only way he can, pouring affection across the link. _Sea and sand._

_Sun and stars._

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~Spock/Uhura or~~ Spock/Kirk Requested by [Karrei](http://karrei.tumblr.com) for [ST Network](http://stnetwork.tumblr.com) GE. I'm pretty glad with how this turned out. I was considering prolonging it, but that would include a lot of angst which wasn't what the lovely requester wanted. I tried to keep a little bit of mystery to what was going on, balancing my scenes between happy domesticity and an eerie “something is wrong here” feeling. 
> 
> If you're wondering how neither of them ever noticed they weren't in the real world, I'd like you try to remember that the next you dream lol. In a dream world, when something doesn't make sense, you don't even notice. You don't think, ‘I was just at my house, how did I magically end up at the store.’ You just simply rationalize it in your dream as going to the store. And anytime something seemed off to them, their minds forcefully pushed it away, like how we sometimes get anxiety over things caused by repressed memory. 
> 
> Sidenote, it is also possible to sleep in dreams too. I'm not sure if that's relevant but I woke up from a nightmare IN a dream the other day. It was fuckin weird. 
> 
> The poem that I drew their pet names from doesn't actually exist, sadly! I decided on those descriptors because I felt it really fit them. Jim is bright and vibrant and makes Spock yearn for _more_ , as one typically does when they look up at the stars. Spock is cool and alluring, but very dangerous, like the sea, and the sand stands for the way he grounds Jim and also how he is Jim’s home. :,) Im lov my boys.
> 
> The conspiracy documentary was obviously made up, but I actually had an incident in mind. It is called the Kecksburg Incident, or the Roswell of Pennsylvania. You can check it out [here](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kecksburg_UFO_incident).
> 
> If you want to chat about Kirk, Spock, conspiracy theories, or anything else, you can message me on my Tumblr, [HellHales](Http://hellhales.tumblr.com/). And if you liked this fic, I wouldn't mind a lil kudos being sent my way. (And you might enjoy my other Kirk/Spock fics too, which are all in the KS series that this fic is in.)
> 
> Fic title from the song [Lost in My Mind](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/headandtheheart/lostinmymind.html) by The Head and The Heart. I thought it was fitting. ;)


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